Page 1 of Chef's Kiss at the Chalet
Chapter 1
I swiped my phone screen to refresh my email for what felt like the hundredth time in two minutes. My fingers trembled, more from nerves than the chilly mountain air that zipped through the front door of The Denver Drip. We were slammed at the coffee shop I managed, and my heart sank a little at each new customer who appeared at the counter to tear me from my obsessive email stalking.
“Hi, welcome,” I greeted the young power couple who popped in every morning on their way to work. “The usual?”
“And a protein ball, please,” the woman in the designer cardigan set answered, sweeping her auburn hair behind her ear as her brand-new engagement ring sparkled under the fluorescent overhead lights.
“Make mine a triple shot,” her short, handsome beau added.
They were eerily similar, this preppy pair of J.Crew-clad professionals. One of those couples who start to look like siblings, slowly morphing into the same person.
Once they had been served, an elderly woman with cat hairs on her coat ordered an English breakfast tea and a scone, taking them to the table beside the window to watch the sidewalk traffic.
Next up was Frank, a regular, no-frills-added, black-coffee drinker. He was a true unicorn at the high-end shop, known more for its creative espresso drinks, as well as sandwiches and gourmet pastries care of yours truly. The modern decor met somewhere at the intersection of Scandinavian minimalist and overgrown greenhouse: wood accents and white subway tiles, with copious potted plants and hanging vines over the thrifted leather armchairs and cozy reading nooks. Quickly, mechanically, I poured Frank’s drink and went back to staring at the clock, willing the thin, black second hand to move a little faster.
At ten on the dot, I would find out if my application to the prestigious Academy of Culinary Excellence in London had been accepted. Not only my dream program, but my dream city. Ever since I’d applied in June to continue my culinary education, I had waited for the day their decision would arrive. Now that it was here, I dreaded the answer. Raising my hopes only meant I had farther to fall if I failed.
“Any news?” Hannah asked, pouring oat milk and matcha over ice.
The perennially upbeat blonde, with tiny studs in her ear cartilage and a butterfly tattoo on the back of her neck, was a senior at my alma mater, The Kent School, and worked here a few days a week. She was also well versed in my application saga.
“Nothing yet.” I shook my head and tapped my phone where it sat on the counter while I dashed between ringing up customers and plating profiteroles and pains au chocolat. “Good or bad, I’ll know in thirty minutes.”
She patted my back. “It’ll work out. I’m sure of it. You’re so talented, Elle.”
“You have to say that. I make the schedule and can give you all the worst shifts,” I teased, laughing when she looked affronted. “Kidding. I appreciate the vote of confidence.”
“Seriously though, as someone going through the college application process, I know the stress is endless. I can’t imagine doing it at your age.”
“Oof.” I cringed at her teasing. Insert knife and twist. “Kick me while I’m down. Twenty-seven is hardly ancient, you know.”
She laughed as two more customers entered. Sighing, I reminded myself that taking care of them helped the clock creep closer to decision time. I was trying not to pace, not to get caught up in thewhat ifs while I constructed a bagel sandwich with homemade mint yogurt spread.
“That looks amazing.” Another customer picking up her croissant gawked at the sandwich as I handed it over. “Can I get one of those too?”
“Coming right up,” I said automatically, barely pausing to breathe as I went back to the register to put in the ticket.
The compliments were better than caffeine to keep me on my feet, darting back and forth behind the counter while I tried to fend off the doubt spiral brewing in my head. That voice that told me I wasn’t good enough and never would be.
Each time Hannah walked by, she gave me a reassuring smile, a pat on the arm, or whispered, “You’ve got this.”
I appreciated the support, but I was immune to her infectious positivity today. Not that I considered myself a pessimist—just realistic. The program was one of the most competitive in the world. Only a tiny fraction of applicants made it in each year. Despite my glowing academic transcript and the pastry diploma I’d already received from Auguste Escoffier School of Culinary Arts, the odds were stacked against me. Still, I hoped the admissions office would read my heartfelt personal essay and understand my passion. They wouldn’t find another student who worked harder or wanted it more. In that regard, I backed myself against anyone.
Again, I refreshed my email app. And again, I felt a creeping sense of dread inside.
“If I don’t get in . . .” I muttered to myself.
Hannah jabbed me playfully in the arm with an espresso spoon.
“Um, ow.” I rubbed my arm and laughed. “You don’t need to resort to violence.”
“Oh, please.” She planted her hands on her hips. “You don’t need to be all morose and dejected. Manifest it.”
“Manifest it?” I said, skeptically. “Sure. I’ll get right on that.”
“If you only think in negative terms, you’re going to keep living in a negative space and what good will that do?” She pulled pastries from the display case and boxed them up for a to-go order. “I think if you believe that you’re deserving, acknowledge that you’ve been dealt a shitty hand and deserve something good, then maybe it’ll happen.”
“Power of positive thinking,” I mocked playfully.
